


Watching, Wanting

by therealfroggy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 12:07:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2269101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therealfroggy/pseuds/therealfroggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock catches John with a girl in their flat, the detective sees an oportunity for research. John is at first reluctant, but the thought of Sherlock and sex in the same sentence...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching, Wanting

John had always had a way with women. Since he was sixteen and smiled his way into Katie's knickers, he had known exactly how to get what he wanted. The fact that he didn't aim very high, might also have something to do with it. It wasn't that John had low standards or that he purposefully went slumming, but he liked plain girls just as well as beautiful ones. He liked the ones with gentle smiles, and the ones that seemed shy at first. He liked the ones that had slightly crooked teeth but laughed anyway, and he liked the ones that were pretty but uninteresting. He liked girls of all sorts, and when the plain ones responded so well to his advances, it wouldn't have taken a great deal of reasoning to work out that the smart thing to do was to go for the plain ones.

And John got his share of the girls. He got dates, and phone numbers, and he got a leg over when he wanted to. He had a girlfriend all the time. What he did not have, was a good plan for making them stay. So naturally, there was a high turnover of girls being brought back to Baker Street.

This one was Mina. She had short, messy blonde hair and big, grey eyes, and she was a little plump, which she seemed to be making up for by high heels and an extremely elegant dress. She was somewhat self-conscious over her size, sucking in her stomach just a bit when John looked at her and standing up straighter so she would seem taller and thinner. John didn't mind at all; it showed she was interested – no woman would make an effort to look thinner if she wasn't, in his experience.

He took her home. It had been too long since he'd gotten any and she was very pretty in exactly that soft, wholesome way he liked. He paid for the cab and pulled her by the hand up the stairs, warning her to be quiet in deference to Mrs. Hudson. Then Mina showed her kinky streak and wanted him to fuck her right on the sofa. Sherlock's sofa.

“Serves him right, the annoying bastard,” John muttered, grinning at Mina and shedding his jacket. That's what his flatmate would get for filling the fridge with disgusting things and then leaving the flat.

They were both naked save Mina's heels and stockings – so, so sexy – and she was in his lap, kissing him, whispering against his lips that she wanted him. She kept condoms in her purse and rolled one on him without even asking if he had any. John groaned softly and kissed her back, holding himself steady as she lowered herself. The rough fabric of the sofa was rubbing against his back, and she was bucking in his grip, her breasts bouncing temptingly in front of his face.

Fuck, this was brilliant.

“Harder,” Mina moaned, writhing.

John bit down on the inside of his cheek and fucked up into her, feeling heat spread through him rapidly. She felt so good around him.

Then movement caught his eye and he looked towards the stairs to find Sherlock standing there, looking right at them.

Shame flushed his cheeks, and John was just about to push Mina off when defiance took over. What was the man doing, standing there like an idiot looking? He could bloody well go elsewhere if he didn't like people having a good time! Turning resolutely back to the woman he was fucking, John grinned up at her and gave her the harder she had wanted.

She wailed low in his ear when his hand found her clit and began working her towards orgasm. John kept at it until she gasped and shuddered and he felt her twitching round him. He clenched his jaw tight to stop himself shouting when he came. When he could catch his breath again, he looked towards the stairs to find Sherlock gone.

***

The next morning, John came down the stairs feeling well rested and unaccountably pleased with himself. Mina had left some time in the early hours, leaving her phone number in a neat ballpoint scrawl on his arm. John had written it down before taking a shower. Now he wanted tea and eggs, if there were any left.

“Ah, John, good,” Sherlock greeted him when he entered the kitchen. “I have some follow-up questions regarding last night.”

John stopped, one hand on the fridge door. It was a bit too early to speak Sherlock, even though he'd slept in rather late. “Follow-up,” he said slowly. Had Sherlock been having a conversation with him while he was gone again?

“Yes, I need you to clarify certain things,” Sherlock said, steepling his fingers. “How high would you estimate her core body temperature before, during and after intercourse?”

John Watson was very, very quiet for a while. He did not move. He did not speak. He did not even sigh. Sherlock was equally quiet, merely looking at John with anticipation. Then John opened the fridge, picked out the eggs and milk, and closed the fridge. He began to make himself breakfast.

“Well?” Sherlock demanded, glaring at John. “It can't possibly be that difficult to remember! You weren't inebriated, you'd had two pints, possibly three.”

“How do you know – never mind,” John sighed. “I'm not trying to remember, I'm purposefully ignoring you.”

“Well, that is both childish and rude,” Sherlock said tartly. “And completely irrational. Why would you ignore me? I'm very interesting!”

“Oh, yes, _I'm_ the one being irrational,” John replied, incredulous. “Sherlock, you can't ask people about details like that! And why would you possibly want to know? You don't care about sex!”

“John, I have said it before, you are an exceptional conduit of light,” Sherlock said, beginning to get that exasperated look he got when he had to explain things. “I had quite the epiphany last night when I came down the stairs to find out what the noise was, and saw you on the sofa. I intend to have that dry-cleaned out of your account, by the way. I realized that though sex does not interest me in the slightest, there is a great deal of physiology surrounding it of which I know regrettably little.”

“Well, why must that be my problem? And why should you suddenly bother with it?” John demanded.

“Well, you were having sex in our living room,” Sherlock said, suddenly sounding a little confused. “You would not have done this if you were adverse to anyone seeing you engaging in the activity.”

There was almost enough hesitation in there to make it sound like a question.

“That was a spur-of-the-moment thing,” John said, finding it difficult to meet Sherlock's eyes. He hadn't actually intended anyone to find them, but Mina had been so enthusiastic and determined. “But, okay, assuming that I don't mind you prying into my sex life – which I do, by the way – why the sudden interest?”

“Well, the knowledge could prove useful,” Sherlock said, glaring at John as if he was being stupid without realizing it again. “It could prove or disprove an alibi. It could tip the scales between two possible theories. All knowledge of the human race is interesting to me, John.”

“Then why aren't you having sex yourself?” John demanded. “The data would be much more accurate!”

“I have no interest,” Sherlock said dismissively. “And why should I subject myself to an unpleasant experience when you so willingly do it for me? You enjoy sex, do you not?”

“Of course I do, you gigantic arse,” John said hotly. This whole conversation made him feel as if Sherlock saw him as a lab rat, and not a very clever one, at that.

“Well, if you like having sex and I like gathering data, why should we not combine our efforts?” Sherlock said smugly. “Oh, come now, you can't argue that it would not be a highly beneficial arrangement to the both of us.”

“That depends on what kind of data you want to gather,” John said sharply. He felt he had been patient enough already. “There are things you have no right to know. And how the hell should I know her exact core temperature?”

“All I wanted was an estimate,” Sherlock protested. “Really, you're being very unreasonable. My data -”

“Use the web like all the other creepy bastards out there!” John shouted. “Google is there for a reason, Sherlock!”

“Don't you think I've tried?” Sherlock snapped. “The results were insufficient. Barely anything reliable, and no chance of observation whatsoever.”

John's mind slammed on the breaks at that. “What do you mean, observation? Surely you don't want to – Sherlock, no. That's just disturbing. If you want to watch people have sex, there are clubs for that.”

“With paid women and stereotypical men,” Sherlock said dismissively. “Any reactions would be either fake or nothing I could not surmise from my own experiments. I need to study the genuine article.”

“Can you not hear yourself?” John demanded, staring at the demented alien that seemed to be inhibiting his flatmate's body. “Can you not see how insane this is?”

“No, John, because there is nothing insane about it,” Sherlock snapped, sitting bolt upright and glaring into John's eyes. “I need data. You are able to provide it, and the act of doing so is one you enjoy immensely. What can you possibly object to about this proposed scenario?”

“I don't want you watching me have sex!” John almost roared.

Sherlock looked taken aback, going so far as to raise his eyebrows a quarter of an inch. “Why not?”

John threw his hands up, got to his feet and went to fetch himself more tea. He needed it sorely. “I can't believe you even need to ask that, Sherlock.”

“Well, there's nothing wrong with having sex,” Sherlock said carefully. “Just because I do not care for it myself, I do not condemn the practice.”

“How would you know, you've never tried it!” John said, and his voice was climbing up into his hysterical register. “It's not about your moral judgement, Christ, Sherlock, not everything is about you! It's about privacy! Do you want people to watch you when you shower? Or piss?”

“If someone with a job as important as mine needed to observe me in order to gain valuable knowledge, then I wouldn't mind,” Sherlock said with a shrug. “You have nothing to be ashamed off, physically speaking. The woman you brought home yesterday seemed to enjoy herself, so presumably your skill is sufficient. And I have seen you undressed before.”

“Coming out of the shower,” John protested. “Not the same!”

“Well, I still don't see why this would bother you,” Sherlock said, and he was becoming irritated now. Oh good, just what John needed. “Especially since I've already seen you engaging in the act.”

John took a deep breath through his nose, noisily letting it out in a sigh. He forced himself to calm down. Asexual, he reminded himself, he doesn't know what he's talking about. He repeated the deep breath and looked sternly at the consulting detective.

“Sherlock. When people are intimate with each other, they let their guard down. They become vulnerable. They make stupid faces and odd noises and they say things they might not be proud of later. They follow their baser instincts and act like animals for a little while. People don't like other people seeing that, unless they have an exhibitionist kink,” he explained patiently.

“And people with such a sexual fixation will not give me any useful data,” Sherlock insisted. “Their reactions will not be natural. Or, at least, not representative of a normal sexual response.”

“But I would still feel exposed,” John said firmly. “I would feel open and vulnerable during a moment that you're not supposed to see. Why would I want that?”

Sherlock looked deeply disappointed. “God, I hate it when you're being prosaic, John, it's so unhelpful. I had expected better of you. Well, will you film it, then? I would not have to be in the room, I could watch it later and you could answer -”

“God, Sherlock, no!” John interrupted. “No! What's wrong with you? Jesus, I won't make sex tapes for your insane science projects!”

Sherlock looked straight into his eyes, those grey orbs fastening on John's blue ones and boring into them. John felt the inexplicable urge to squirm in his seat. He felt a small stab of guilt, and why the hell should he feel guilty for being a rational adult and demanding Sherlock respect his personal life?

“John,” Sherlock said, and his voice dropped to something deep and almost hypnotic, the way it did when he was about to be premeditatedly brilliant. “Will you please... do this for me?”

And something else stabbed low in his guts next to the guilt: arousal. Just the faintest, briefest touch, but it was there. John was aroused at the thought of Sherlock watching him have sex.

Oh, damn my life to hell, John thought, and sighed in defeat. “Once. Only once. And not unless we find a girl who's comfortable with it!”

Sherlock's face broke into one of his rare, reserved smiles. “Good. Very good. Thank you, John, it will be very helpful. I'll mention it to Lestrade when I solve my first case based on a suspect's recent sexual habits.”

“If you tell _anyone_ , I will punch you very hard in the face, and then in the bollocks later,” John said vehemently.

***

They went to a club the next time they had a Saturday evening off. Sherlock sat at their corner table and watched people, saying nothing, drinking one glass of very expensive whisky. John sat next to him with his pint and felt awkward and stupid for having agreed to this insanity. He didn't know how to go about it.

“What about her?” Sherlock asked, nodding towards a woman by the bar, a very tall brunette with a very short skirt.

“No, I don't... I haven't seen anyone I like just yet,” John lied. There were plenty of attractive girls at the club, but he just didn't know how to start. Hello, my name is John, would you like to have sex with me while my insane flatmate watches? Not exactly the best of chat-up lines.

“Well, what is your type?” Sherlock asked helpfully, looking around at the girls dancing and drinking. “I wish they wouldn't drink so much, it'll distort our readings.”

John rolled his eyes, but said nothing. This was neither the time nor the place for a fight with Sherlock. “Just look for girls who keep staring at us.”

Miraculously, the girl they needed came along surprisingly quick. She was skinny, her hair was dyed flaming red and she was not wearing a bra beneath her blue tank top – and she was winking and smiling at John so much it was almost embarrassing. John gave Sherlock a significant look and went over to ask if he could buy her a drink.

Once he'd coaxed her back to their table, John began his normal routine of asking what she did, where she was from and so on. But the girl had other plans.

“You lads up for a bit of fun?” she asked, voice a little high-pitched but pleasant enough.

“Always,” Sherlock said with a winning smile. John noticed it was one of his normal-people smiles. “What did you have in mind?”

“A threesome,” she said immediately, grinning widely. “I've never tried. And Ellie, that's my friend, told me it was amazing.”

John was immediately convinced the fates wanted him to lose every argument with Sherlock, past, present and future, because the world's only consulting detective apparently got everything he wanted when he wanted it. There was no other explanation for the appearance of this girl than divine intervention. John really had no choice.

“Well...” John said, trying to sound seductive as he leaned closer to her. “My friend here is a bit... peculiar. He just wants to watch.”

The girl blinked up at him. Then she looked at Sherlock, who was still pretending to smile, and frowned a little. “Doesn't sound like much fun.”

“Well, I'm a lot of fun,” John assured her, putting on his best rakish grin. “I think I can make you glad you came home with us.”

“Us?” she repeated, her grin going a little dreamy. “You're living together?”

“Just friends,” John said sternly, then hastily added, “I mean... we're close friends, if you know what I mean.”

The girl giggled and touched John's arm playfully. “Oh, I know what you mean, alright.”

It was surprisingly easy from there. John made sure she had a few more drinks, then suggested they go back to hers before she got too drunk. She was so determined to have sex she didn't even protest two strange men following her home, but got in a taxi with them and led the way back to her dingy apartment. Then she locked the door and demanded Sherlock removed at least some of his clothing.

“Why else would you be here?”

Sherlock gave John a confused look, but John just glared at him and nodded, hoping he'd get the message and do as he was told. If John was sleeping with a girl he didn't really like just so Sherlock could have his stupid data, then the least thing Sherlock could do was make sure she didn't get suspicious.

Sherlock removed his coat, scarf and jacket, and undid the first few buttons in his shirt. So far, so good, John thought, removing the same items himself. The girl was in her kitchen, fetching more drinks, from the sounds of it.

“You want a beer?” she asked, reappearing with a sixpack in one hand.

“Oh, ta,” John said, feeling he could not possibly be drunk enough for this. Sherlock accepted a can, too, but John noticed he didn't actually drink from it.

“So...” the girl said suggestively, smirking at John. Her hair was really, really red. “Want to get a little more comfortable?” Then she promptly removed her top, and wow, John hadn't really been prepared for the nipple piercings, but she did have very nice breasts.

With a grin, John removed his own shirt and toed off his shoes, suddenly a lot more confident. He could do this; he was good at this. At sex. The details, like how Sherlock would be watching every second, weren't important. And she had such very, very nice breasts.

John was, after all, only a man.

She shimmied out of her very short shorts and left the room through a doorway at the far end of the living room – John could only assume this led to her bedroom. He followed her, completely disinterested in whether Sherlock followed or not. To be honest, it was getting hard to remember his flatmate was there at all.

Her bedroom was a bit of a mess, with discarded clothing and odd ends lying everywhere, but the girl with the red hair was sprawling in the middle of a comfortably large bed with midnight blue sheets, wearing only a very small pair of white knickers. She was looking right at John when he came in, grinning. In her hand was a foil wrapper.

“Your friend can sit there,” she said, waving a hand at a chair that was mostly covered in shoes and purses. It was placed next to the window and angled so that Sherlock wouldn't be able to miss anything unless he closed his eyes.

“What's your name?” John asked, pushing his jeans down before following her onto the bed. His socks had been left in the living room, along with the rest of his clothing.

“Shawna,” she said, not budging an inch so that he had to climb right on top of her. “You?”

“John,” John said, for once glad he had such a boring name. He didn't think he'd want her to remember it for later. “And that's Sh... Dean.”

He dipped his head to kiss her neck, grazing the skin with his teeth, testing her reaction. She pushed into it so forcefully he almost bit his own lip. He cupped her breast, thumbing over her nipple, feeling the supple flesh fit in his palm like it was made specially for him. She purred in his ear and arched into the touch. John was liking her better by the second.

“I like it a little rough,” Shawna said, her hands tangling in John's hair. “You can bite me, if you like. And I want you on top.”

John began moving down, placing little nips on her skin, sucking hard on her nipple when he reached her breasts. The metal of her piercing tasted like surgical steel and felt strangely warm on his tongue. She was pushing into his every little touch and John couldn't remember the last time he'd had such a responsive partner. It was like everything he did pleased her to no end.

Which of course did nothing to make him want her less.

When his lips encountered the cotton of her small, white knickers, he looked up at her with his best I'm-about-to-make-you-scream grin, and found she wasn't looking down at him. Her gaze was fastened on something behind John's left shoulder, and from the way her pupils dilated and her breath hitched John could only assume Sherlock was looking sexier than his normal marble statue self.

Suddenly curious as to how Sherlock would look sexy, John turned his head to look for himself.

Sherlock was seated in the chair Shawna had indicated, surrounded by heaps of things he had apparently pushed to the floor to make room for himself. He was in his shirtsleeves, the top buttons on his shirt were open, and he had removed – strangely – both his shoes and his socks. His chin was propped in one hand, the elbow leaning on the armrest of the chair. Those grey eyes were watching them unblinkingly.

And damn it if John didn't feel a strong surge of lust just seeing him like that.

“Not even a spitroast?” Shawna breathed, shuddering a little beneath John's hands. He could smell her arousal, lying so close to her.

“We'll see,” John chuckled, because only frequent visits to PornTube had taught John what a spitroast was, and he was pretty certain that Sherlock neither knew what it meant nor had any interest in joining in one. “Let me get you ready first.”

Not that she needed it, he reflected as his tongue encountered the musky flavour of her. She was wetter than he could remember any girl being, and she was moaning as soon as he tasted her. This was really pushing all her buttons, apparently.

“Fuck,” she gasped, legs quaking around John's head.

John redoubled his efforts and pushed two fingers into her. Shawna squealed happily and pushed her sex against his face. As soon as he could feel her clenching rhythmically around his fingers, John sucked hard on her clit and listened to her low-pitched moans as she came convulsively. He pretended to himself that he was not noting her core body temperature as well as he was able with his medical training.

“Oh, fuck,” she repeated, arching lazily as John took his mouth off her. “You were right; you are a lot of fun. If you do me from behind, I can give your friend something to grin about as well.”

John got off her and shuffled across the bed until he was kneeling with his back to the headboard. Shawna was on all fours in front of him, her knickers discarded and her pert, pale bottom swaying as she shifted around to get comfortable. Then she threw him a grin over her shoulder.

“Go on, then.”

John had, until that moment, not really thought about the fact that Sherlock had seen everything and was still watching. He had let himself get caught up in the moment. He had pushed his shorts off, completely unselfconscious, and was slowly stroking himself as he watched Shawna push her bottom high for him.

Then he looked up, across the slender expanse of her back, and met Sherlock's eyes.

John drew in a slow, shuddering breath. Those eyes, compelling and enigmatic even when Sherlock was only demanding a cup of tea, were burning now. Sherlock's pupils were as dilated as Shawna's had been, and a dull red was colouring those high, perfectly formed cheekbones. John let his eyes run down to Sherlock's lap. Although the dimness of the room made it hard to tell, the doctor would have been prepared to swear that there was at least something stirring to make that bulge in those dark trousers.

John grasped himself and began stroking slowly. He was vaguely aware that the sight of Sherlock was partially responsible for how hard he was, but the taste of the woman between them was still in every crevice of John's mouth. He took himself in hand and pulled her hips back to meet his own.

“Get up,” John moaned as he pushed into her. Shawna was squealing; she was pushing back hard to get him deep. “Get up and open your trousers, Sh... Let her taste.”

The mix of apprehension and arousal in his friend's eyes jolted John to his core. He wanted to see it; he found himself desperately wanting to see Sherlock's face as he experienced sex for the first time. He felt Shawna clenching hot and wet around him, and he licked his dry lips, rocking slowly in and out of her.

“Wait for him,” John said, running his hands over her hips. Her skin was soft, sweaty, stretched tight over quivering thighs and jiggling breasts. “I'll bring you off when you bring him off.”

Shawna purred under him. “Ooh, yeah. Yeah, I'll suck him while you fuck me.”

Sherlock's eyes met John's again, and the grey in them was almost all gone to black. They just stared at each other for a long moment, and then – incredibly – Sherlock slowly got to his feet and grasped his belt.

John had to bite down hard on his own lower lip to stop himself talking. It was surreal, but it was undeniably erotic: Sherlock, that inhuman scarecrow who only cared about cold logic, was doing as he was told, leaving himself vulnerable and aroused in a strange woman's bedroom. With John watching him and making that woman sigh.

John didn't even see how Sherlock looked when the consulting detective got his trousers open; John was completely engrossed in those eyes. Pure instinct was keeping up his slow, deep thrusts into Shawna; John was staring into Sherlock's eyes and nothing else registered with him. Then the great detective's lower lip separated from his upper, just a fraction, and an almost inaudible gasp filled the room.

“What's her core temperature, Sherlock?” John whispered, completely forgetting that Shawna might hear him. “Elevated? Is she able to retain focus while I am doing this to her, or will she give better head if I stop?”

“Don't stop!” Shawna protested, and Sherlock's mouth moved again – hers had apparently let him go. “No, go on, harder!”

John held her hips still while he thrust. He could feel his thigh muscle begin to burn sweetly, but his eyes were still magnetically attached to Sherlock's.

The dark-haired man was hypnotic to watch. The red on his cheeks had grown more prominent, darker, and his lower lip was almost quivering. He wasn't touching anything; as Shawna sucked his prick, Sherlock just stood there, arms limp along his sides. The eyes, though, charcoal grey and stormy, were glowing darkly as they remained open to John.

Shawna was burning up. John needed to know if Sherlock was, too. Without thinking too much about it, he reached out, holding a hand out towards his flatmate. Slowly, as if unsure of what was happening, Sherlock reached out, too, and their fingers touched, feather light, in the air above Shawna's eagerly bobbing head.

It was electric. Despite the fact that he was fucking a woman, the only thing John could feel was the skin on Sherlock's hand, not nearly as warm as his own but still throbbing with the heat of what they were doing. Their eyes were boring into each other, but John couldn't imagine what Sherlock was seeing, any more than he could explain what he was seeing himself.

On his next thrust, John imagined Sherlock on his back beneath John on a bed, and his head spun.

He wanted Sherlock.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, his head tilting slightly to one side. “She's... warm. Much warmer than normal. But you, you're burning.”

With need, John realised. With desire for another man. For Sherlock.

Their fingers intertwined, their hands folding together. A loud moan from Shawna reminded John of what he was supposed to be doing. He felt her heat and tried to estimate how much warmer she was than when they had started. Not much, he knew, but it felt like the entire room was boiling. John's other hand slid, as of its own accord, around her hip until he could reach her vulva.

“Her nipples are tight,” John told Sherlock, still in a whisper, still looking right into his flatmate's eyes. Still feeling Sherlock's hand in his own. “She's breathing heavily. Her body is tight around me; tighter when she's approaching orgasm. Heart rate elevated, saliva and genital secretions increasing. When I make her come, she's going to clench –”

He didn't know if Sherlock or Shawna was louder, but they both gasped; sucked in air with a long, harsh sound.

John bent over Shawna and encouraged her to spread her legs wider apart so he could get at her clit again. He began rubbing her, touching her just there, as he thrust. As his fingers clenched between Sherlock's on her shoulder.

“Get him off,” John encouraged, rubbing her faster. “And I'll get you off.”

“He won't,” she gasped, arching into his hips. “I... I tried!”

“Try again,” John murmured, then tugged a little on Sherlock's hand. “I'll help.”

Sherlock's unflinching gaze turned pleading. “John...”

“I'll tell her,” John said softly, not quite sure why it was so important that Sherlock orgasmed. “What to do. Where to touch you. Listen to my voice, you'll know what's coming.”

Because Sherlock liked knowing things, right? Not because John wanted Sherlock to feel as if John was the one touching him. Of course not.

“Palm his bollocks,” John said, easing his thrusts a little. “Gently. Put your mouth at the end of him and tongue into the slit at the head.”

Shawna giggled around Sherlock, the sound muffled but her shoulders shaking in an unmistakable movement. Then Sherlock's eyes went round. He'd never had a blowjob before, John knew this.

“Use your hand to pull him while you're sucking hard at the tip.”

Sherlock gave the tiniest, most controlled moan John had ever heard.

“Sherlock, come on,” John began, intending to tell Sherlock where to put his hands, but the great detective didn't hear him. He was too busy coming down Shawna's throat, his face contorted, his neck tendons straining as his head fell back.

His hand clenching hard on John's, pulling almost desperately on his flatmate's coarse fingers.

When John could see the last of the shudders leave Sherlock's frame, he stopped and pulled Shawna back with him until they were both kneeling upright. He put both arms around her until he could touch her breasts and her clit at the same time. She mewled happily in his arms.

“Watch her now, Sherlock,” John said, out of breath and straining not to come himself. “Watch carefully.”

Sherlock's eyes, finally leaving John's, ran up and down Shawna's quivering form. “I'm watching.”

And John touched her, touched her everywhere, still hard inside her but unmoving, until she was squirming. Then he bent his head and bit her neck, nibbled there, worrying her skin with his teeth as his finger pressed hard against her clit.

She screamed when she came this time; a sound like a dying hind as she collapsed in John's arms and shuddered in his arms. John slowly followed her down, laid her gently on the bed on her stomach, and moved over her, shifting her legs aside so he could push back inside.

“Okay, then?”

Shawna nodded and pushed her bottom high again. “Yeah.”

But John had stopped looking at her. Sherlock had sat back down in the chair, his trousers done back up, and was staring at John again. Their eyes met again, and when John began rutting – chasing his own orgasm, unable and unwilling to wait any longer – he stared right into Sherlock's grey orbs as he fucked the last of himself into Shawna on her messy bed.

And he was close; had been since touching Sherlock's hand. He was almost there; he fucked her faster and faster and he stared at Sherlock, looking exactly like he always did, and John wanted so badly to come, he didn't even care if it was with Shawna and not Sherlock –

John came, shouting inarticulately. He saw Sherlock, naked and sweaty, in his mind, and he came hard inside Shawna with the nipple piercings and the short, red hair.

They left half an hour later, and let themselves out because Shawna was murmuring happily about going to sleep without even brushing her teeth. They took a cab home to Baker Street and didn't say a word until Sherlock was pausing on the threshold to his room.

“Thank you,” he said, softly, and went in and closed the door.

John went up to his own room and fell asleep fully dressed. He didn't want to think, because he was feeling sated and sleepy and his mind was full of Sherlock's eyes, and thinking would ruin it. So he went to bed, and didn't think at all until his dreams replayed it all over and over.

**Author's Note:**

> Should there be a subsequent Sherlock/John bit? Would it be too OOC?


End file.
